Chapter 47 — I Suppose Commander Mormont Could Use Talents Like These
Tyrion's verbal assault pressed harder and harder.
Cersei Lannister looked as though she might shatter her own teeth from clenching so tightly, her eyes seething with hatred for her dwarf brother.
"Your jests are not amusing, little monster."
"King Joffrey does not need your permission before giving orders. You are not qualified to question him."
"And we are discussing your squire's crime — the unprovoked murder of Gold Cloaks. Don't think you can twist the truth with that accursed tongue of yours!"
She spat the words like venom — yet still did not dare admit the order had come from her, not Joffrey.
Tyrion scoffed internally, though his expression remained one of bewildered innocence.
"Twisting the truth? Then please, dear sister — enlighten me. What exactly is unprovoked?"
"You say the order came from King Joffrey? Very well — then tell me: what crime was committed by the prostitute in that brothel, and her daughter — a child not yet one year old — that warranted a royal command and a massacre?"
"Today's Gold Cloaks killed more than one person. Do you know what the people of this city were thinking as they watched royal guards slaughter their neighbors and stain their hands with blood? Did you see the fury in their eyes?"
"And allow me to remind you, dear sister — every victim the Gold Cloaks killed today was a child."
"They drowned them in public wells.
They threw them from high towers.
They slit their throats open with swords.
They stabbed infants through the heart with daggers.
They chased those who ran and crushed them under horses' hooves."
"So — is that what the King's command means? A senseless butchery of his own subjects?"
By now Tyrion could no longer maintain his performance.
His face darkened — real rage breaking through — his voice low, teeth clenched as he demanded answers from the Queen Regent towering above.
He wasn't the only one who knew what wasn't being said.
Everyone present knew the truth.
Cersei's face reddened with fury. She opened her mouth — and nothing came out.
Those bastards deserved to die. They should be crushed under horses, beheaded and mounted on spears!
She wanted to scream that — to release the hatred boiling inside her.
But even she had enough sense left to swallow it.
"I told you — the King's orders do not require your counsel. You are not entitled to know them, Tyrion!"
Her stubbornness was beyond infuriating.
Tyrion felt exhausted — weary not of arguing, but of her blind cruelty and stupidity.
He shut his eyes, inhaled deeply, forcing restraint back into his voice.
"Cersei, I do not wish to repeat — again and again — whether I am worthy of this council seat. The debate is pointless."
"But let me remind you why Father sent me here. I will not continue a public shouting match — especially if you wish our… previous agreement to remain in force."
"So let us ensure that no more catastrophes like… beheading Lord Eddard Stark occur."
Tyrion kept his tone as gentle as possible, looking up toward his sister on the Iron Throne — earnest, but firm.
He also gave her an exit, allowing the matter of who truly gave the order to be quietly set aside.
Because the slaughter of infants — regardless of the reason, regardless of who commanded it — was something that could never be spoken aloud.
Even Tyrion had no choice but to compromise at this point.
The deed was done — dragging the truth into the light now would achieve nothing.
And the moment Tyrion mentioned their private agreement, Cersei — though still trembling with fury, lips quivering — didn't push further.
Whatever rage consumed her, she could not afford to tear faces here and now.
Leaving Jaime Lannister aside, the current state of King's Landing made it impossible for her to openly break with Tyrion. Behind him stood their father — Tywin Lannister — and Cersei knew too well that if Joffrey wanted to keep his crown, they could not afford to lose Tywin's support.
Nor could today's massacre ever be acknowledged publicly.
"…Then I'll hear your suggestion, Lord Tyrion."
Cersei spat the words through clenched teeth, sinking stiffly back into the Iron Throne to stew in her bitterness.
Seeing that she was, for the moment, contained, Tyrion exhaled inwardly in relief.
He shook his head once, then turned to the assembled council members.
"My lords, what happened today in Chataya's brothel is not in dispute. By witness and by evidence alike, Lord Janos Slynt was the instigator."
"He attempted to seize a noble boy without cause, shame him before the public, and then kill him under a false pretext. His crimes cannot be excused."
"So my recommendation is: divest Lord Janos Slynt of his land and titles. Considering his past years of service, we shall not execute him — instead, let him don the black and be sent to the Wall."
"This will also quiet the voices of the people, and prevent our beloved King Joffrey from being branded a tyrant due to… the madness of others."
"A new king has only just ascended. We cannot allow the people of King's Landing to grow hostile to the crown."
Since Cersei had chosen to back down and stop clinging to the impossible defense, Tyrion did the same — he would not keep asking who gave the order.
Politics is war.
But politics is also compromise.
With Cersei retreating, Tyrion stepped forward publicly — speaking as acting Hand of the King, fully within his authority. And Tyrion was no fool: if Cersei had chosen to burn Janos Slynt, then he would make sure the flames burned high — enough to shield Podrick entirely.
If the massacre was Janos Slynt's crime alone and had nothing to do with the royal family, then naturally Podrick Payne was innocent.
In fact — by that logic — Podrick had performed a public service.
Though that part could come later. For now, securing his safety was priority.
Yet the other councilors kept silent.
Grand Maester Pycelle, being ancient and frail, had already slumped asleep in his chair, wheezing softly as though nothing had occurred and no one had spoken.
Lord Petyr Baelish finally surfaced from his internal calculations.
He sent a subtle glance toward Cersei — the loser of this round — then toward Tyrion — the victor — before letting his eyes drift to Varys.
The Master of Whisperers still wore the same mask of mournful compassion he had entered with, as though he alone was grieving the tragedy that befell King's Landing.
But now that Cersei and Tyrion had each taken a step back from open war, Varys's sorrow-drenched expression softened into a gentle smile.
"Lord Tyrion's judgment is razor sharp," Varys said warmly. "And indeed, matters appear exactly as you have stated."
"And as for a capable servant like Lord Janos Slynt…"
His tone didn't change, yet the cruelty beneath it glimmered.
"I imagine Commander Mormont at the Wall is in desperate need of such talent."